How Did It Feel?
by The Half Mad Muggle
Summary: Lord Voldemort knows.


**How Did It Feel?**

_Happy Birthday JKR and some boy named Potter I've never heard of! Everything we do, everything we write, we do only because of you - and that is the greatest gift you could have ever given._

_Yours, indebted, always _

_~ SS19_

* * *

><p>Lord Voldemort knows everything. This is something I believe you should consider, servant of mine, because I truly believe you have forgotten. You have forgotten that I am more powerful than you could ever hope to be, that I can extract information from even the darkest recesses of the darkest mind - and that I know everything.<p>

You stand before me, hands clasped together in front of you, fingers interlocked. A defensive position - one you believe to be neutral - except it belies nervousness. Do you interlink your fingers so they do not tremble? I have never seen you fiddle or fidget - you have such wonderful control over your body and even the most innocuous, involuntary movements - and yet. I wonder if perhaps there is...too much control. Unnatural.

I beckon to you, a whisper of your name, and you kneel before my throne. Kneel. Only you could kneel with dignity and almost pride - yet if you were truly mine, you would not kneel before me. You would stand, because you believes that shows respect more than kneeling - one of your most intriguing characteristics. In the past – our past – you would never have knelt before me.

Do you kneel before him? I highly doubt it. You respect him too much to kneel before him. Am I second, now, in your mind? Am I beneath him?

I raise one hand and lazily brush one finger against your black hair - the physical contact combined with our gazes locking allows me entrance into the fine mind of yours - and you show me memories.

Memories that are too perfect. You show me _exactly_ what I wish to see. It is effortless. You do not flounder and fight like others do, blocking the secrets you do not want others to see, the terrible truths - everything I want is already there. It is perfect.

Too perfect. You construct this so that I would have no reason to doubt you.

Except I do have a reason. The reason is - everything you do is calculated. Everything is artificial - because you are not loyal to me, but you are trying desperately hard to seem loyal.

It's too _perfect_.

You show me everything I wish to see, and that means when I withdraw from you, there is no seeking of approval - because you know I would approve of everything I have just witnessed.

It is a very Slytherin strategy, one that I am proud of, one that Salazar himself would be proud of. Nonetheless, I am a Slytherin too - moreso than you could ever be - and I can see what is happening. I see through it. I can see that you are no longer mine.

You are his. You have been for many years.

But that does not matter. I let my finger trace down your cheek and under your chin, and I am surprised you do not pull away from my touch, as if disgusted – you do not mind me touching you, then? I wonder if my nail is tracing the same path his blackened finger has journeyed, these past few weeks. Tilting your face toward mine, I finally speak.

What I want you to do, you do not have to be mine. It does not matter if you are mine, or his, or something in between.

Because even if you are his, you will still carry out the command - because of the way I have structured this.

The use of a scapegoat.

You will have no choice.

How does that feel?

"I do not want Draco Malfoy to kill Albus Dumbledore, Severus. I want _you _to do it."

And I will have my revenge - because I will make you kill the one person who stole you from me - and the one person I know you care about.

Your response is admirable - you simply nod, uttering my title with that soft voice of yours, as if you have been expecting it, and your fingers remain clasped together, and nothing shows in your eyes because your mind is perfectly Occluded.

Can someone truly be that emotionless?

But as you leave, I smile to myself - because I know you have no choice now.

It does not matter who asks you. It does not matter if it is me or him.

All that matters is that you do it.

...And you will.

* * *

><p>You stand before me, hands clasped together in front of you, fingers interlocked. The circle of Death-Eaters surrounds you, and many of the gazes that lie on your shadowy figure are awed. You accomplished something that we have been trying to do for years - you killed Dumbledore - you have proven your loyalty beyond anything - you truly are the worthiest to wear the tattoo that burns your arm.<p>

You have stared at me for a long while with those emotionless black eyes of yours.

I smile slightly. Forgive me, for I have not finished. Not yet.

"How did it feel, Severus? Tell me."

Still nothing in those eyes. You do not answer me.

"How did it feel, to raise your wand, to speak the curse? Did you watch him fall? Did you blink? Did you see the surprise and the shock and the horror on that face?"

How very admirable, for my words do not seem to have affected you.

"How did it feel, to taste his fear? Fear? Was it fear? Was he afraid, of you? Did he know what was going to happen? Did he sense it?"

Is that the smallest of trembles in your lower lip? Do you long to pierce the pliant skin with your teeth, the way you do when you are worried? Or concerned? Or anxious? I glance down at your hands, your interlocked fingers, and I believe those knuckles have whitened, tightened. Is there sweat on your palms? Back up, to your eyes, and I wonder if I can see something in those black irises I have not seen before.

"I wonder how he must have felt - seeing you - his protege and his advisor, pointing a wand at him - do you think his heart broke in those final moments, Severus?"

Did your heart break, servant of mine? Did it hurt?

"How did it feel, to have him at your mercy? Did he beg you? What did he say? Did he murmur your name, hoping it would reach you somewhere in that pitiless heart? Did he plead?"

I lean forward, dropping to my voice to only a whisper so it could caress your cheek and pour poison into your ear. "_'Severus. Please?'_"

And I see it - the flaring of something - every muscle in your body tenses, and you almost flinch. Your hands drop to your side, and the colour has drained from your very skin, leaving you pallid and cold. But my eyes have not left yours.

Because, for the first time - perhaps the _very_ first time - I can see _you._ I can see past what you want me to see and through your defences - the memories - and I can see the anger and the hatred and the disgust and the pain - so much pain – agony – torment – more than that - and I can see you, standing on that tower, raising your wand, every piece of your body screaming for someone to stop this - and I can hear him, inside your very head, pleading with you, not to stop, not to back away, but to kill him - and then I know.

I know for sure.

You force me from your mind and I hear the sharp intake of breath.

I smile and step forward, stroking your cheek, feeling the increased thud of your pulse beneath your skin. "How did it feel?"


End file.
